A Cure for Heart Cry
by avaniheath
Summary: A little tale inspired by the poem "The Children's Hour" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.


**Summary: A little tale inspired by "The Children's Hour" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. **

**A/N: This came to me while listening to my class recite "The Children's Hour" by Longfellow. I would also like to give a little shout-out to my favorite 4 year old, Jael (who will probably never know of this, but that is neither here nor there). Her school day worked its way into my story. ;) A quick hug to _dharmamonkey_ for her beta time and suggestions! **

**Disclaimer: 'Bones' is not mine. I'm just playing with them. I will return them when finished. Also, the poem belongs to Mr. Longfellow. I'm just using it as inspiration.**

A Cure for Heart Cry

He came home, opening the door to the smell of a delicious dinner, noting the distinct aroma of homemade mac & cheese. He smiled, hung up his leather jacket and deposited his firearm in the locked box on the top shelf of the coat closet. He removed his holster, hanging it up as well, and made his way down the hall towards the kitchen.

He could hear their voices—his wife, their two little girls and their son—wafting through the house. She was giving directions to the children on how to set the table while she worked diligently finishing dinner in the kitchen. He rounded the corner quietly and wrapped his arms around her from behind as she stood at the counter. He smiled into her hair, placing a kiss on her temple.

"Hey there," she smiled, turning to kiss him on the lips. Her hands moved along the familiar path of his chest, linking at the back of his neck. The kiss was soft, warm, familiar; an everyday greeting between husband and wife.

"I've missed you this week," he stated, burying his head in her neck, inhaling her scent. She was a mixture of lavender, amber, and cinnamon, a scent he had learned many years ago was uniquely her own: a combination of body wash, shampoo, lotion and her own natural scent. At his words, she felt familiar warmth spread through her.

It had been a long week, with many late nights for both of them at the office and the lab, and it seemed that no matter what personal plans were in place when they arrived home, it was straight into bed for both of them. Mornings had been rushed as well: focusing on gathering papers, packing lunches, and ushering kids off to school. The case had been a tough one on them both but now, with everything complete and all T's crossed and I's dotted, they could finally relax. She moved away to mention the possibility of having Angela keep the kids for the weekend when they heard the telltale sound of little feet running into the kitchen.

"Daddy, Daddy!" the little voice squeaked as she launched herself into his now free arms. She hugged him close, scattering his cheek with little kisses. "You're prickly, Daddy. It tickles!" He rubbed his five o'clock shadow on her cheek, enjoying the sound of her laughter, stopping when she was laughing so hard she couldn't catch her breath.

"How was your day, Monkeygirl?" He could feel his wife's eyes on him. Knowing she disapproved of the nicknames he had given their children, he ignored her looks and the sounds she would make when he used them. _They're kids; they deserve to have nicknames_, he'd argued. _It's a way to make each of them feel individually special_. She didn't like his reasoning but, after seeing that he intended to continue with the appellations regardless of her opinion, she finally stopped voicing her argument after their son was born.

"I had a fun day, Daddy," she said, throwing her arms wide in the air in exclamation. He laughed at her, always the bright, fun, festive one in the bunch. Brennan had told him once it had to do with being the 'baby' and always needing attention, but he didn't focus on it. "Miss Nicole did counting today. We got up to twenty!"

"We counted to twenty," her mother corrected. She rolled her eyes, as only a four year old can, at her mother's correction, looking back at her dad. He gave her a stern look, telling her without words that her action was not an appropriate response to her mother.

She sighed dramatically and continued. "We counted to twenty, and then we had snack. Mommy gave me celery today. I liked it. Then after snack we said the alphabet three times and I didn't miss any! Then we wrote our letters!" She stopped, watching her dad to make sure he was listening. When she was satisfied that he was paying attention, she continued with her day. "We ate lunch after writing letters and I had a peanut butter-jelly sandwich and cheese slices and grapes and juice!" She waited for her father's nod of approval at the lunch her mother had packed.

"That sounds like a delicious lunch," he laughed, noticing that his wife had started moving the food into the dining room for dinner.

"Uh-huh, it was," she nodded enthusiastically. "Then we went outside and ran and ran and ran! Then Logan and David, they went to the woods and got in trouble!" she shouted, very upset at what the two boys had done on the playground. She put her hands on her sides, huffing a breath as she spoke. "They were very bad today. Very _very_ bad!"

"You're right. They were bad. They disobeyed the rules. Did they get in trouble?" her mom asked, coming back into the kitchen, hearing the story recounted for the second or third time. It pleased her to know that her daughter, just a few weeks over four years of age, was so advanced. She knew all of their children were extraordinary and smart—including Parker—even if he wasn't biologically her child.

"Yup!" the little girl replied to her mom's question. "Miss Nicole made them write their letters and numbers five times for homework!" Her voice, raised high and full of intensity, told her parents that writing letters and numbers five times was possibly the worst punishment possible.

When they sat down at the table, he took his usual place between their oldest daughter and their son. He asked them about their days, hearing all about the ups and downs of elementary school. He and his wife discussed their days as well, leaving out crucial, disgusting, or dangerous details. Their children had always been interested in what their parents jobs entailed and especially enjoyed the "field trips" they were occasionally allowed to the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal lab.

The kids helped clean the kitchen after dinner and sat down to study and finish their homework. They had helped the kids together: Gemma with her studying for upcoming tests and quizzes, James with his math, even helping little Isabella write the letters of the alphabet and numbers one through twenty. After homework was complete, his wife ushered everyone upstairs for baths and bedtime rituals while he retreated downstairs to the basement, his "man cave".

He sat in the quiet room, highlights from the earlier hockey game replaying on the TV. It had been a long day, a longer week, and he was enjoying his solitude. He grabbed the remote, switching channels, hoping to find something to pique his interest. She was upstairs, working in her office on her latest book while he took some time to relax from the week in his own space. They had tucked the kids into bed, he said prayers with them, and she had asked for an hour of time to focus on her book before going to bed. Reluctantly, he had agreed when she told him of Angela's agreeing to keep the kids to allow them some peace and quiet for the weekend.

He tossed back the last of his beer, setting the bottle on the table beside his chair. He settled the TV back on the hockey highlights, watching the same replay for the third time. When his mind started to wander, thinking about spending time with his wife on a kid-free weekend, his senses suddenly picked up on little sounds coming from the stairway.

He could hear the steps creaking and groaning quietly, little whispers resounding in the silence of the stairway. He couldn't help but smile, knowing that at least two of the three little ones had snuck out of bed, past their mom's office, and down into his cave. He sat still in his recliner, pretending to be engrossed in the hockey replay. Not wanting to give himself away, he threw out a shout and groan at the sight of a goal being made by one of the teams. All the while, his ears were on alert for the pitter patter of feet on the wooden floors. He heard them step from the stairs, continuing to creep up behind him, giggling behind hand-covered mouths.

He knew he should stop, reprimand them for being out of bed and take them back upstairs, adding on a punishment of some sort. But he didn't have the heart. In the midst of the workweek, not only had he neglected his wife, but his children had also been affected. He had returned home most nights after they were already in bed, kissing each one before falling into his own bed. He had missed them as much as he missed their mother and he knew they had missed their "Daddy Time". So, he sat still, watching hockey, waiting for his three smallest joys to announce their presence.

No sooner had he prepared himself than the two smallest of bodies appeared on the each side of his recliner, throwing themselves onto his lap in a fit of happiness. "Whoa!" he bellowed, pretending to be surprised, wrapping his arms around them. "What are you guys doing down here, huh?" he asked, trying to sound stern. His son sat on his lap, playfully punching his stomach. His smallest daughter was busily trying to tickle his underarm while his own hand tickled her sides.

He couldn't see her, but he knew his oldest daughter was standing behind the chair, running her hands through his hair causing it to stick up in every direction. At nearly eight years old, she was still a child, but had all the perception and grace of her mother. She was the disciplined, literal leader of the trio and rarely indulged herself in "childish things."

"What're you doing back there, Jellybean?" he asked, his hand moving from holding the four year old to grab the hands of the oldest culprit. As he pulled her around to the side, he couldn't help the large smile that graced his face. She was the exact image of her mother, but with his chocolate brown eyes. "Nothing," she said in a small voice, flashing him the same brilliant smile he had been looking at since meeting her mother so many years before at American University. He leveled his gaze at her, testing her story.

"Are you _lying_ to me?" he asked teasingly. Of all four children, she was the least likely to lie, even when playing.

"No, Daddy, of course not! I'm only teasing you," she laughed, the sound warming his heart. As he reached to pull her into his lap, the little boy of six managed to land a hard blow to his father's stomach, knocking the wind from him temporarily.

"Okay," he wheezed, gasping for air. "You guys better get back upstairs! If Mommy checks on you and finds empty beds, we're _all_ in trouble!" He looked at them wide-eyed with a look of excitement tinged with fear. _Okay, so painting her to be the "bad guy" isn't exactly the right thing to do_, he thought. _But I like being the good guy!_

"Please, Daddy, can we stay and watch the game with you?" James asked, his bright blue-grey eyes begging silently. "We'll be quiet. We promise." He shook his head at the sight before him: three auburn headed children, the girls with wavy curls, the youngest two with their mother's eyes, and all with his natural charm and charisma. _The world isn't prepared for these kids_.

He shook the thought from his head, taking the kids from his lap and stood up, kneeling down to envelope all three bodies in a tight bear hug. "Nope! Not tonight! Mommy has had a very tough day and we don't need to scare her by leaving three empty beds upstairs, right?" He leveled a firm stare at them, leaving no room for an argument. They all nodded in unison.

"Okay," he said, standing again. "Let's go!" He ushered them up the stairs, encouraging them to move quietly and slowly so they wouldn't alert Mommy. They were able to make it up both flights of stairs and past her office without detection and he gave each child a fist bump of congratulations as he tucked them back into bed. He reminded them of the consequences to disobeying the rules as he turned off the light in his daughters' room, carrying his youngest son to his own room.

"Goodnight, Little Man." He kissed his forehead, ruffling his hair. As he turned to leave, he heard his son's whispered voice. "Daddy, I was a good soldier tonight, right? I made it up the stairs without Mommy hearing me. Can I be a good soldier like you someday?" He looked at his son, the innocence radiating from him in the soft lamplight of his room.

"You're right. You were a very quiet soldier," he said, pausing to think of how to respond to his son's question. Although they had not discussed it since having children, his own desire to see his children enter military service was not a positive one. He wanted to protect them for as long as he could and, having served twice, he knew the risks of war. "You can always be a good soldier. Every day when you help Mommy or Isabella, or Aunt Angela or Uncle Hodgins … that's being a good soldier." The little boy accepted his father's words and rolled on his side, content.

When he had closed the door to the last bedroom, the mock 'FBI' badge rocking slightly on the door, he made his way down the hall toward his own awaiting bed. Opening the door, he saw her lying in bed, propped up on pillows reading some article, her disapproving look visible in the lamplight.

"You knew?" he inquired as he undressed, slipping into bed beside her.

"Of course I knew, Booth," she said with a smile. "I'm their mother. I heard them 'sneak' downstairs, laughing and whispering about how they were going to scare you. And I heard all of you 'sneak' back upstairs as well. I made my way in here while you were in the girls' room." He nestled close as she slipped low beneath the blankets. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. He knew he was caught, but she didn't sound angry, so he burrowed closer still, burying his nose in her neck, just below her ear.

"I've missed you," he whispered, kissing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. "I love you, y'know," he whispered.

"I know." She smiled her full smile as he pulled back, looking at her face. "I love you, too." He leaned in to kiss her, thinking of all they had overcome to reach where they were.

_Life is good. Life is very good_, he thought as he drifted into a restful slumber, thinking of his children as he held the woman of his dreams in his arms. _Life is very, very good._

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><p><em>Hope you enjoyed it! Please share your thoughts! The more I hear from you the more I write, so PLEASE talk to me! More reviews = happy writer = quicker posting!<em>


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